


we'll burn this city (you and me)

by treesfall



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Demonic Possession, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treesfall/pseuds/treesfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is possessed and taunts Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll burn this city (you and me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much dark!fic. Character death, discussions of violence and some non-consensual kissing. Can be taken as a character study for Stiles and Derek. All demon-lore within is based off of my Supernatural viewing, but that's not necessary to read this.

The trick was to keep the demon talking, rambling on in an attempt to do as much emotional damage as possible. Lydia had warned Derek about that part when she’d given out the assignments, sending Scott and Jackson to get the necessary materials for the exorcism. Derek watches, ducked beside a tree some twenty feet from the Hale house’s porch, watches as Stiles walks around casually, tossing his loose-limbed legs in front of him in a slow and lazy pace. His arms cant outward on occasion, not to catch his balance, but simply to half-twirl in the chilly spring night. 

“Oh, come on, kiddo. Stop hiding so we can have some fun,” Stiles whispers, knowing that Derek will hear him. There’s an involuntary shiver that makes Derek’s hair stand on end, like a spooked dog. It’s not the first inkling he had that things would be going south, but it’s a confirmation of sorts, the knowledge that he’s being lured here just as much as he’s trying to lure the demon. 

Derek walks forward eventually, squaring his shoulders to mask his underlying hesitation. As soon as both feet are on the top step, his body is being thrown through the half-open front door, and he slides to a stop a few feet shy of the staircase. 

“There we go, isn’t this fun?” Stiles’ body still moves with a lackadaisical ease, like he’s in no hurry. “We’re finally on equal ground, Derek.”

Maybe it’s the fact that the demon still sounds like Stiles, regardless of how much Derek _knows_ it’s not him. It doesn’t change the way his heart kicks up at the threat, especially coming from Stiles—it’s even more terrifying that way. 

“You wouldn’t know it, but this kid’s got some serious strength, more than he lets on. Not enough to keep up with you though, that’s for sure—and doesn’t he know it, doesn’t he just simmer over his inadequacy. But that’s where I come in, like a little guardian angel.”

Derek can’t help but snarl at that, his lips pulling back from his teeth and his vocal chords vibrate in a way that predicts an imminent growl. 

Stiles laughs, tips his head back and _laughs_ like Derek’s never heard once in the past three years. He chuckles a lot, snickers at his own jokes, but he never, _never_ laughs with such unabashed joy. Derek’s eye flicker red without him realizing, the danger obvious and raising alarm with the wolf. 

Stiles’ laugh cuts off with an eerily familiar snicker; it’s unnerving how even the demon seems like Stiles sometimes. It’s a scary thought, that Stiles was darker than anybody thought, and nobody ever noticed. 

“Cool trick. Mine’s better,” Stiles says with a smirk as his pupils flood outward, his eyes entirely black. Derek then makes the conscious decision to lengthen his fangs, even as his blood cools. 

The demon rolls his eyes, back to Stiles’ color, unamused. “Put those away. You picked up too many theatrics from Peter. Can’t we just talk about this like civilized adults? Wait, I forgot, this one’s still a tyke, still seventeen, what a damn shame. Especially considering his father’s the sheriff. If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll kill him for you.”

Derek feels frozen on the spot, back on two feet but still useless nonetheless. All he can hope for at this point is to keep the demon talking long enough for Scott and Jackson to show up. A deep part of Derek warns that it doesn’t matter anyway, that things are already going in the demon’s favor, that it doesn’t matter at this point. 

“No? Okay, down to business then,” and Derek’s head tilts minutely to the side. “What, just because I’m a crazed chaos-creating-machine, I don’t have a purpose? There’s a death quota to fill, silly. Hell always needs more soldiers, and Beacon Hills is just brimming with morally dubious folks perfect for a little time topside after they’ve learned a thing or two downstairs.”

Stiles always had a certain grace, for all the difficulty he had as a sophomore on the lacrosse team. He grew into his body even more, learned how to hone his power even better after training with the wolves, but there’s a beautiful fluidity to how the body moves now, propelled by another force. Derek feels sick but so helplessly enthralled, watches how Stiles stalks into the adjacent room.

Derek’s feet move of their own accord in pursuit. He doesn’t let Stiles out of his sight, doesn’t trust the demon as far as he could throw Stiles. 

At least he’s heading for the devil’s trap hidden beneath the area rug Lydia insisted they put in the living room, and he still hears her scolding voice say _parlor_ , sighing at how they’ve all inserted themselves into his life, how they’ve rebuilt this house. How he’s fighting a demon that’s trapped—maybe killed—Stiles in his own home that they built. 

“You know I’ve heard a lot about you, from this kid. From Kate.” And so it starts. He knew there would be taunting; Lydia told him that demons prey on every emotional wound they can find and twist a hook right into you at the juncture. 

Derek wants to turn, claw the demon to pieces, but he _can’t_. There’s anger building in him already, but as his nostrils flare, he breathes in deeply, holding on to the hope that he just needs to keep the demon talking until they can save Stiles. 

“You’re not as much fun as Kate said you’d be. This kid’s tamed you, I suppose. Or maybe she did, but no, my money’s on the kid. But Kate, I met her in hell. Obviously, she had no chance at salvation,” Stiles smiles almost admirably, and Derek is two seconds away from puking up blood. 

“God, that girl was pure evil, worse than half the demons I know.” Stiles runs his fingers over the mantle, fingers tapping on a picture frame here and there of the pack, the new one. “You want to know the best part? She wasn’t even possessed when she did it. How beautiful is that? That she didn’t need any ghost telling her to light the match, she just did it.” 

With a dreamlike sigh, Stiles says, “Oh, she’ll move through the ranks quickly, I’m sure.” There’s pride in his voice, like when he talks about that time he won championships for Beacon Hills, like when he told the pack he’d gotten into Stanford. “It’s almost a shame. She gets all the glory for your hard work. I mean, it was you, after all, who killed your family. And what do you get for your noble sacrifice? The job of pack babysitter? Putting up with these kids forever? And Kate? She gets to destroy everything in her path, wouldn’t you love that?”

Derek doesn’t answer, clenches his eyes shut. He wasn’t prepared for this, he _knew_ he wasn’t ready, but he’d bit his tongue and told the pack he could do it. So nobody else would have to. So Isaac wouldn’t have to hear just how much his father hated him, so Jackson wouldn’t lose his sanity at learning that there’s not a soul out there who cares about him even the slightest bit, so Scott wouldn’t have to hear that he can’t save everyone and even if he could, his father’s never coming home. 

He wasn’t ready, but neither was anybody else. So it’s him, always him. 

Stiles tuts knowingly. “You would. Because that’s all you want sometimes: to kill, maim, demolish everything and everyone you can find because it’s all you’re good for. All you’ve ever been able to do. Yeah, you try to be better, noble. You make a pack of strays and hope they’ll learn to love, but they never will. And look what you’ve done—you’ve gone and gotten this kid possessed. You ruin everything you touch, Derek.” 

He knows. He let his guard down, he took a breath, thinking he had the time; thought _maybe we can be normal for a little while_. Of course Derek blames himself, he wasn’t looking when the black cloud of smoke shoved itself down Stiles’ throat, he wasn’t doing his job. Oh, how he blames himself.

“Don’t worry about it though. This kid still thought the sun shines out of your ass. Well, not really. He noticed your flaws, because really, Derek, _who hasn’t_? You’re the worst alpha this side of the Mississippi, even he could be a better alpha and he was a pesky, little human.”

Derek’s breath catches at the end of the demon’s sentence, feeling a foreign rage at the insulting words, choosing ignore the carefully-placed past-tense of the demon’s words. 

“He coddled you in his mind, because goddamn, he wanted you to be the alpha he swore to me that you could be. _He’ll save me_ , he shouted, _Derek and the rest of the pack and he’ll kick your ass seven ways to Sunday once I’m out._. You turn his life to dust just like the ash you turned yours to, and he still held out faith, even if he was lying to himself.”

There’s a self-loathing that distracts Derek, a fearful déjà vu that he’s letting this pack down just like he let down his family, just like he accidentally sold out Scott to Kate. It’s happening again, and yeah, yeah, _everything he touches turns to dust_. No matter how hard he tries—he needs to stop trying. He’s had enough disappointment. 

“He was good at that, you know. Lying to himself, telling himself you cared, _the pack_ cared. That he was content, happy even, hopeful. And myself? I’ve never seen a more barren soul; he had the wit only a killer does, let me tell you, and I’ve been around the block enough times to know. This kid,” Stiles’ head shakes in an affectionate way, riddled with regret for some reason— _he’s dead_ , Derek tells himself. The demon wound up attached, but there was no other option but to kill Stiles. Maybe the forethought will soften the blow when he does learn the truth. 

“God, he thinks he killed his mother. Shame he didn’t though. That would’ve been so perfect. But no, he didn’t, and all he ever wants to do is shake you, tell you that it wasn’t your fault they all died. But we both know the truth, don’t we? It was your fault, all your fault. You might as well have lit the match. Just like you’ve killed him.”

Derek’s finding it hard to breathe, like the vicious attacks of the demon are using up all the oxygen in the world, letting him on the carbon dioxide. His only saving gasp is that Stiles has wandered into the devil’s trap, circling around the inner edges of it perhaps unconsciously.

“You know it’s over by now, I’m sure. They won’t get here in time. Lydia did well though, smart that one, but she’s no Stiles. It’s ironic, he might’ve survived this if you guys had a Stiles around. He’d been yelling the exact way to get rid of me for days, but I had him bite his tongue. What a shame, you took him for granted.”

For a moment, there’s a pain in Stiles’ eyes, as if it’s still him for a second, fighting to get out. Derek turns his eyes away quickly, not falling prey to that manipulation. It’s still the demon, as much as Derek hopes that Stiles is still fighting tooth and nail, clawing his way out. 

“That’s all you ever did. Ignored the human because he was fragile, weak, loud, a liability in ways the wolves aren’t. There were so many chinks in his armor that he might as well have left it home. He’s so noble, strong. He’s got more darkness than me in him, and he still tried to save the ones he loved. For selfish reasons of course, only because he _knew_ he couldn’t handle it if another person died and left him abandoned during their funeral. You all thought he was weak, but only he knew how true that was; of course he’d rather die himself than deal with someone else’s death.” 

Derek’s feet lead him closer to the devil’s trap, and Stiles gives a hollow laugh—so similar to ones Derek’s heard before. 

“You really think this can keep me in?” The worn-down sneakers toe at the carpet, right on the line. “Surely you didn’t think they’d send a little minion for this job. No, no, Beacon Hills has had too much supernatural experience to be given such an insult. You guys deserve a bit of a challenge, things have been too quiet.”

The hardwood snaps, a line trailing crookedly, demonically, through the devil’s trap, and Stiles steps over the line with a smug look. Derek’s eyes catch on the crack, feeling like the house is already on its way down, just like it was during the fire.

“But as I was saying, God, does this kid want to die,” the demon’s voice slips over the word _God_ , like it’s an amusing joke. “Are you going to let him?” Stiles’ voice pours into Derek’s ear, the hot breath feeling like such an incongruity. It’s not as if Derek can move, too rooted to the spot to consider it. 

Stiles takes a step breath, tilting his head almost sweetly, looking sympathetically concerned. “Somebody has to die, Derek. So I’ll let you choose. You or him.”

It’s as if the winds been knocked out of his chest cavity. Does that mean Stiles is still alive? It’s the only thought that registers in Derek’s mind, his brain frozen with fear and hate and wolf instinct to run and human heart to stay—the demon is still in Stiles’ body, and he won’t leave that body until the demon is out, regardless of if Stiles is alive or not. It should not be desecrated. 

His thoughts swarm around him finally, like a tidal wave catching up with the shore. Is the demon luring him into dying too? Is Stiles even still alive? Stiles _wants_ to die, accordingly to the demon, and yeah, yeah, Derek even buys that; but the demon knows all too well that Derek wouldn’t let that happen anyway. 

Derek’s selfish enough to save Stiles. 

And that’s where his thought-process stalls again. The demon knows this, and it’s what it wants. The demon knows that there’s an iota of hope downright _festering_ in Derek’s side at the prospect that Stiles is fighting. 

Yet Derek knows that he isn’t. He wants to drop to the floor, and he already feels his knees threatening to give out. _Me, me, me_ , his mind chants. It’s his chance to repent, to pay penance for his sins. To finally save someone instead of killing them, and how can Derek pass it up.

His eyes lock on Stiles, and there’s a scoffing laugh when the demon sees the resolute determination in Derek’s eyes, determination to die. 

“Are you sure? I could burn him, and wouldn’t that just be the most beautiful you’ll ever see. All of this body, scarred and broken, turned to ash. It’d be so…poetic,” Stiles whispers, that familiar voice narrating his own death. 

Derek knows from the tone of Stiles’ voice that there isn’t any hope; that Stiles is already dead. There’s too much regret in the way the demon says, _maybe I could burn him_ , like he wants to call a do-over.

Derek’s eyes widen in horror. 

“But no, you already know it’s too late for that, and it’s so unfortunate. I would’ve loved to see that look on your face, would’ve loved to hear how he screamed when his skin burned. I’ve heard that when you burn, your skin feels so hot that it’s ice cold.” Stiles’ smile bares all his teeth at Derek, a threat in the animal kingdom and in the supernatural one, as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t hesitate to bare his own teeth, his lower jaw inching forward as his teeth grow. 

“Oh, calm down. I haven’t even gotten to the good part,” Stiles waves a hand. “I haven’t even told you how I did kill him, what he said when he was dying.”

In an instant, Derek’s body sinks down into a lupine crouch, and he springs forward, tackling the demon with a growl. 

“Look at those red eyes. You know, you’d make a fantastic crossroads demon. Did Lydia tell you how you seal a deal with the devil? How you kiss the demon that dealt with you? People would come from all over to deal with you, there’d be souls flying off the shelves. Hell, this kid would’ve sold his soul for nothing more than the opportunity to kiss you.”

Derek slams Stiles’ shoulders into the hardwood, the trapped human side of him cringing at the way it looks. But no, it’s worse than that because Stiles is dead. .

“He can’t really do that now since I twisted a knife in his stomach. Actually, I made him do it to himself. He tried to stop it, put up the good fight crazy as it is. All he wants is to die, and I finally give him the chance only for him to refuse. He didn’t have much of a choice though, and his hands shook the entire time, right in front of his bathroom mirror. There was so much blood, and he bleeds out slowly. He kept crying, but he gave in, stopped fighting it—kept saying that he didn’t want to live if it meant that a demon used his hands for evil. Little did he know that I’d still be around, and man, does he have the hands for evil.”

Stiles shifts beneath Derek, lifting the edge of a shirt Derek had seen Stiles wear time and time again. It’d never looked so ominous before. On the pale skin—pale as death—there’s an infected wound, black and blue and sore like a bruise. 

“It was so _breath-taking_ , listening to him scream. First for Scott, then his dad. And his mother, he kept calling for her too. But do you know, Derek, that he called your name last? Like you were his last hope, but it was barely a whisper—no hope you’d hear in a million years. Like he wanted it so badly to be you who saved him, like saving somebody was _exactly what you needed_. Both of you, like he only needed somebody to care enough to save him from himself. But you didn’t.”

Derek wants to punch the demon in the face, exorcise it to Hell and back so he can exorcise it once more. Wants to kill, rip his teeth and claws through the throat beneath him but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“I could’ve taken a werewolf instead. Possessed wolves are so much _fun_. But Stiles? He was so wide open to possession; he’s got more chinks on his arm than Jackson or Isaac, can you believe that? It’s true though, practically no skin on his limbs from all the lacerations, not that he’d let anybody see. I’m so glad it was him in the end, he’s so beautiful and dark, perfect pickings really.”

Derek leaps off of Stiles’ body, feeling sick to his stomach again, and this time, there’s bile rising in his throat. The need to damage something is overpowering him, and it only makes him feel worse—all he does is destroy—until it feeds off of itself in a cycle. It’s only a matter of time now.

“There was one other option though. You see, possessed wolves are fun, but possessed alphas are even better. But no, Stiles had as many problems as you, and I decided it’d be more fun this way,” Stiles steps forward, cornering Derek in a way that the demon knows he can. Even as Derek loses control, he slowly spindles it back together because there’s a part of him that cannot, even despite the current situation, harm Stiles so irreparably. “I knew that once he was gone, you’d be beyond repair, not that you aren’t already but I have to make sure. And now, you’re even more uncontrollable, more open to possession so I’ll take you too and kill all of Beacon Hills. Sounds fun, right?”

Derek’s back hits the wall, still stunned into silence. He doesn’t even remember the last time he spoke, but it’s not as if that matters much. The demon’s doing a dandy job of keeping the conversation going himself.

He’d heard stories about this, like campfire ghost stories. Demons. Decimating entire towns. Laura used to tell them to Derek to scare him, and they’d usually worked when he was younger. It wasn’t until he was older that he saw the wary, careful glances his mother would give them both as she scolded Laura to not put such lies in Derek’s mind. Like she knew it was true. 

“You’re the first domino, Derek.” Stiles’ voice is soft and reverent, like the demon is worshipping Derek for the both of them. Stiles’ spindly fingers trail along the side of Derek’s face, and he tries to pull away, the touch burns in an insincere, aggressive way despite the softness. “The pack could’ve survived this, but not without their alpha. Soon it’ll be a whole pack of possessed werewolves; they won’t be able to hold us off without you, the damage will be too much. All those wolves, burning this town to the ground.”

Stiles leans in, looking almost apologetic. 

“You might’ve been strong enough to resist before, but after this? No, there’s no hope for you and your wolf to hold us off.” Derek shudders, frantic to break free of this but unable to move. “Because this is all your fault, Derek. Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you save me?”

And the voice sounds entirely like Stiles, no smugness in the words; the tone isn’t laden with _demon_. Derek teeters on the edge there, and he’s too unstable to do anything when the demon pushes Stiles against Derek, kisses him weakly, like it’s Stiles. 

It’s terrifying how Derek almost can’t tell the difference, it’s a kiss like he figures Stiles would really kiss. His hands fist in Derek’s shirt a little desperately, pushing his lips open in a demanding and needy way, His tongue swipes over Derek’s bottom lip, but Derek’s frozen, pushing only a bit on the demon’s suffocation. When Derek doesn’t open his mouth to Stiles’ tongue, Stiles nips at his lips, letting out an impatient, indignant whine, pulling back, frustrated.

The way the demon sinks Stiles’ weight on one hip, other leg still inching in between Derek’s, makes Derek twists his head at the neck, eyes screwed shut. Stiles’ forehead presses against Derek’s temple, too cold, sending a shudder through Derek.

Still, he doesn’t fight. Lies down and dies like he does when he’s out of options because he’s _tired_ and hopeless and done.

“We can burn this city,” Stiles says, eyes dark but not black. Dark like Derek’s seen them only a handful of times, before ample amounts of physical harm were doled out. “And we can start right here, you and me.”

Stiles’ hands are wrapped around Derek’s neck, cradling his head, and for a shadowy moment, Derek gives in. He’s still giving in, what else can he do?

There’s a foreboding, false gentleness to the touch, the way Stiles’ fingers creep at the base of Derek’s skull, nails scraping through Derek’s short hair at the nape of his neck. A rising fear in him feels like this might be when his neck is snapped—it’s a quick way to kill a werewolf. There’s no coming back from that kind of injury no matter how quickly you heal, there’s no putting a spinal cord back together. 

“I could do it,” Stiles whispers—spooky how human it sounds. “I could snap your neck and be done with it, but no. That’s too much peace, you don’t deserve it. And Hell really needs another soldier.”

Derek opens his eyes, almost daring the demon to kill him. 

“Did you really think I came alone? Wolves aren’t the only things that travel in packs,” Stiles whispers, sounding sinister but also knowledgeable at the same time—just like he used to when he’d recite something back from the bestiary, from the library books, from Wikipedia. He even gave Lydia a run for her money. Not anymore. 

Stiles’ gaze travels to the ceiling where there’s a mass of black clouding together, waiting. 

“I think I’ll let you live though. Let’s see how long you can fight it,” Stiles fingers loosen a bit, his lips leaning forward to ghost over Derek’s. “Let’s see how much you can take before you’re begging us to kill you, how much before you lose your mind. I wonder how many times you can watch your dick fuck into this kid’s body before you’ve had enough.”

Derek chokes on his air, panic rising at how Stiles’ fingers tighten once more, his palms cool as they settle carefully against his neck. 

“Yeah, I think I’ll let you live,” and Derek’s neck snaps—everything blurring as his legs give out and he falls to the ground limply. His wolf is howling, slamming around inside his body, already fixing the paralyzing damage, which the demon surely knows.

A sneaker nudges Derek’s chest, pushing him flat on his back. Stiles crouches down, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he looks at Derek, a thumb running over Derek’s bottom lip. The demon watches with proud awe as the black smoke crowds into Derek’s mouth, forces its way into his lungs, chokes him down until he’s screaming, screaming, screaming inside his own body. He imagines this is what it felt like to be in the Hale house during the fire, wanting to flee but having no way out, being shoved into a corner, and suffocated into submission. 

There’s a heavy hand on his chest that Derek feels in a haze, like he’s half-asleep or stuck in a dream, before there’s a wanton mouth on his, eager and energetic. 

Stiles’ eyes gleam in too human a way—but maybe that’s his own demon talking, recognizing like kin and running with it. 

“We’re burning this town down, wolves and all, and we’re starting here.” 

Derek feels his legs pull upward, bending at the knee. His elbows crook, his palms flat on the floor as he pushes himself up. 

He doesn’t want to scream any more. He doesn’t have the will, the energy. All he can think about is how Stiles fought this, how he even tried. Derek doesn’t want to fight; even if he could, he wouldn’t. 

All he does is destroy. 

He wonders how long he’ll last. 

Longer than most, he knows. Maybe forever even. 

It feels like home when Stiles’ nimble fingers swipe a match.


End file.
